


a future you still can have

by Nyxierose



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/pseuds/Nyxierose
Summary: Assorted Kabby ficlets based off gifsets by @shefollowedfires on tumblr.





	1. let us start from here

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I write enough stuff inspired by a particular friend's BEAUTIFUL gifsets, sooo THOSE fics get their own AO3 compilation too. All originally posted on tumblr [@electricbluebutterflies](http://electricbluebutterflies.tumblr.com). Compilation title from "Bloodrush" by Brooke Fraser

This is how you begin again:

You wake up one morning and find that there is enough space in your bed for another body, and you are hit with a wave of longing two years in the making. Two years you have been content to mourn, to be the vengeful widow, but all things must end and so it is with your sorrow. You have a life yet to live, an easy half your days on solid earth if the fates allow, and you do not mean to do it alone if given a choice in the matter.

You are in love, yes, but a love born of tragedy and desperation. You are in love in a way where you have learned to memorize each new wound you clean on his body for fear neither of you will live to see it scar; you are in love in a way of heartbeat glances and passionate last-chance kisses and no plans of surviving long enough to turn this strange thing you have into something more solid. You realize, as you braid your hair and brace for the day ahead of you, that you want so much more.

You have that chance now. For the first time in too long, there is quiet. Your lover is the public face of power; yourself, the greatest influence behind the throne. All around you, your people have begun to put down roots. Survival is giving way to actual _life._ There’s a chance now, and you decide you mean to take it as soon as you can.

Your moment comes a few hours later, midafternoon in the workroom that is slowly becoming a living space for both of you. There’s a blanket on the couch and an electric teakettle on the table - small creature comforts, enough for this second home, and-

“Are you alright?” Marcus asks in that voice you know means he’s been worried for several hours but just now found the nerve to do something about it.

“Fine,” you murmur, returning to your task of resetting a graph on your datapad.

“You don’t look fine.”

Subtle as a missile, you can’t help but think, but his concern is equally obvious. You get to your feet and lock eyes with him from safe distance, attempting to reassure. “Just thinking about things,” you shrug. “Nothing vital.”

You know, having used this technique on a regular basis for over a decade, that being vague is an efficient way to push Marcus’s buttons. It works well enough now, visible as he tenses up and takes a step closer to you.

“Nightmares again?”

(No one else even knows you have them. Only reason Marcus does is because you had a particularly nasty one a couple weeks back while taking a nap in this very room, and he walked in looking for a piece of paper for some project and got a little distracted by how loud you can scream while not fully conscious, and after that he’d earned a bit of an explanation. It’s nice to have someone worrying about you, but still a bit much.)

“Are we ever going to try to do things properly?” you ask, changing the subject.

“Things?” he repeats, a blush visible through his beard, no doubt remembering-

“We dance around each other. We make it so perfectly clear that we’re just friends, so perfectly clear that it means _nothing_  when you reach for my hand, but when does the act stop? When will we be safe enough for you to fucking kiss me without one or both of us being on the edge of death?”

He says nothing, only stands silent for a few heartbeats and then crosses the space and leans down and presses his mouth to yours. Gentle, slow, searching. You could get used to this. You could get used to one of his solid hands on your face and the other in the center of your back, his body leading but not forcing, giving you visible exits but knowing just as well as you do that you won’t take them. You could get used to-

“I don’t know what a relationship would look like for us,” he breathes, shifting to hold you close.

“I don’t either,” you laugh. “But I want us to try. Can we do that?”

He nods. “There is nothing in the world I want more.”


	2. quiet

The day before the anniversary, Abby makes plans.

Everyone else is celebrating in their own ways. Most plan to attend a party; others, those for whom the beauty of Earth has been marred by loss, perform more solitary rituals. (Abby will claim not to know this if asked, but she saw Octavia wander off yesterday on foot with a sword on her back and a flower in her hair, and she wishes the younger woman luck in whatever remembrance she intends to offer.) As co-chancellor, it’s expected that Abby will be in attendance at the party, but it’s also her right to decline that honor and so she intends to.

She’s got better ways, she decides, to honor the first year of the latest phase of her life.

On the day of, as sunset falls and the glorious night begins, Abby slips away with a bag of supplies slung over her shoulder. She means to celebrate alone, in a quieter state (not to mention a decidedly more sober one) than most of her people. And yet somehow she is not surprised when, as she nears the gate, that particular detail falls away.

“No one alone after dark,” Marcus murmurs, gently reaching for her hand.

She loves it, these little moments between them. Their relationship is established fact in the settlement and has been for some time; it’s common knowledge, for instance, that the fact that they share living space is _not_  just a logistical choice. Yet neither has much taste for public affection (apart from that one night Abby blames on a bad combination of boredom and Azgedan liquor), and to the casual observer, their public behavior could easily be read as that of two close friends. It’s better that way, Abby thinks. Makes every little brush of skin mean something.

“Then you’ll have to come with me,” she laughs. “I’ve got a thermos of tea, some candles, and a warm blanket. Plenty of supplies for another person.”

(She swears she meant to go alone, but she knew damn well her partner would end up along for the ride regardless of intents.)

Marcus steps closer and kisses her forehead, still holding her hand. “Lead the way.”

They walk out into the woods in silence, in what feels like no direction in particular at first. Abby’s no adventurer by nature, but she’s studied every map she can get her hands on and knows of a perfect quiet place a certain distance out. Bit strange, her having this kind of idea instead of Marcus, but she likes keeping him on his toes every now and then.

A year ago, she remembers, he tried to have her executed and nearly succeeded. Now, wandering through a starlit forest, it’s all she can do to keep from playfully pinning him against a tree and kissing him. Strange how much can change in so little time.

There are still wars to be fought, perhaps. There is still the struggle of establishing a civilization and learning to play nice with the neighbors. There is still their chaotic patchwork of a family, a next generation who has seen far too much but still occasionally need help. There is still-

Abby’s thoughts cut off as she processes that, for some reason, Marcus is laughing. “What is it?” she asks.

“We’re too romantic for our own good.”

“Please. You’re just annoyed you didn’t have this idea first.”

For a moment, a memory of hisses and snarls in cold metal hallways, and then all is as it should be again.

“A little bit, love. How much further?”

“Here. We’re here.”

A quiet place, but one Abby’s been sneaking out and improving whenever she’s found time. A stone firepit and a bench a perfect distance away, not much at all but it’s _something_ and-

This time, her thoughts cut off as Marcus kisses her. They’ve been doing that on a very regular basis for over six months now, and much more too, but she thinks she likes kissing best. She likes running her tongue over the bristles of his beard, reaching up and tangling her fingers in his hair, giggling into his mouth as one of his hands migrates down her back and squeezes her ass. She has this now, all of it, a second chance at love where she never thought it’d blossom and-

“Are you alright?”

Somewhere in there, Abby apparently started crying softly, but of course she didn’t notice right away. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

Marcus backs away, gives her space to compose herself. He knows when to wrap his arms around her and let her compose herself within that safety, and he knows that now is _not_  a good time for that. He’s learning.

“We did it,” she murmurs, sitting down on the bench and motioning for him to join her. “We survived.”

“We survived,” he repeats. “And we found each other in the wreckage.”

Oh, how often that statement has been all too true, but Abby can’t find it in her heart to point that out. “I’m happy I have you. I couldn’t have done all this - the last year, any of it - alone.”

“Me neither. I would’ve drowned in a week without you pointing out my faults.”

“I like to think we would’ve lasted a little longer, but…”

Marcus moves to start the fire, returning to his partner’s waiting arms only after it’s properly blazing. “You did all this yourself?”

“Barely anything to do. Just had to move a few things and-”

He kisses her, gentle, tangling fingers in her hair and holding her close as they break apart. “It’s quiet out here.”

“I know. That’s why I brought you.”


	3. i'll find you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific content warning for vague aftermath of torture.

The man they bring back to her is not quite the same one she kissed goodbye a month ago. Abby is more perceptive than she lets on, and she sees the pain etched on her partner’s face and the weight of having survived hell lingering around him. He moves slower, refuses eye contact, flinches when she inspects a still-bleeding wound on his lower leg. A shell of a person, really, not at all the version she loves and yet-

Whatever, whomever hurt Marcus like this, she hopes they pay for it. She hopes they burn. And if things were just slightly different, she’d inflict that damage herself, but as things are, she’s a little preoccupied.

Abby is prone to worrying even on her best days, and she went through countless what-ifs over the last month, but none of them were this bad. She thought - knew, really, spent enough years baiting him to be absolutely certain - that Marcus was unbreakable. Whatever happened… whatever they did to him…

If she were a more violent woman, if she trusted her skill with guns or sharp objects just a tiny bit more than she does, she’d kill every last one of those bastards. This is what she tells herself, over and over again, as she clinically inspects scars and notes reactions. Damn her peaceful heart and greater needs. Damn all of it, really. She wants blood and fire, and she wants them _now_ , but even more than that, she wants healing and a return to normal.

Or, at least, whatever’s going to pass for normal in this aftermath.

He’ll stay in medical tonight, Abby decides. He’ll stay in medical tonight, under Jackson’s watchful eye, and that will give her just enough time to gather all her necessary things from the small house that was supposed to be _theirs_  and move herself to a tent on the other side of the settlement. She knows when her presence isn’t wanted, and as much as it stings, she knows it’s for the best.

As quickly as their lives once crashed together, she pulls them apart, drowning in a numb feeling. She came so close, and then…

(Gods, sometimes she envies the younger ones - she dares not call them children anymore, they haven’t been for a long time, but those of her daughter’s era. She’s seen most of them move heaven and hell to keep a lover safe, sometimes victorious and sometimes not but always an admirable effort. She herself has no such strength left in her, only love, and even that feels like nothing at all. If she were more… oh, if she were more _something_ …)

In the morning, Marcus lies still on a cot and Abby’s heart breaks a little as she watches him sleep. She knows, perhaps better than anyone else alive, how strange and rare that is. Not just as a lover accustomed to his patterns, but also as a friend who saw him aimlessly wander hallways fifteen years ago and offered a solution. Sleeping pills are a long-gone dream now, but pain and exhaustion apparently work just as well and-

He wakes suddenly, silent and frightened, and it’s all she can do to keep a respectful distance.

“You’re here. You’re safe.” All she can do. Too much, she knows, far too much to sit on the edge of the bed and wrap her arms around him and get the closure _she_  wants. She’s not the one who walked through fire; her desires are meaningless until healing comes.

For days, weeks, Abby watches and waits.

She pawns her normal responsibilities off on anyone she can and finds that things work better with other people in charge anyways. David’s been functionally running the guard for the better part of a year; all that changes is his status becomes official. The council, or what passes for it right now, functions just fine without Abby as a figurehead. She still lends a hand when she can in medical, but not anywhere near as much as she once did. She has a primary project, a wounded man who barely moves or speaks, and until that changes…

“He might not come back, you know.”

Abby blinks, taking in the figure sitting down opposite her. Indra comes and goes as she pleases lately, spending just as much time around her second flock as her own people, and she seems to almost _like_  Abby now and frankly it’s a little weird. But reassuringly weird, because Indra’s got a sense of perspective unlike any other and-

“I know that,” Abby murmurs. “But I have hope.”

“You sky people don’t know when to give up,” Indra laughs. “I admire that.”

“At least someone doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

“Oh, I didn’t say _that_. Just said I don’t mind it.”

Abby’s pretty sure that’s supposed to be a compliment, so she goes with it.

A month, then two. A long time to wait for a miracle, yet every slow step warms Abby’s heart. She may have officially moved out of the small house Marcus occupies, but she spends most of her days there, retreating only at night. She can’t - won’t - let him drown alone.

“Why do you stay?” he asks one day. It’s the first time he’s initiated a conversation - new progress, new hope.

“Because I love you.”

He reaches out and laces his fingers with hers, and maybe, she thinks, maybe they’ll get their chance after all.


	4. better than myself

Her. It always comes back to _her_.

He wonders, sometimes, how he got that lucky. How, out of everyone he ever had the chance to fall for, he found _her_. Emphasis necessary, of course, because Abby plays a lot of different roles in his life right now and the version of her that Marcus is currently fluttering over is just slightly separate from the version that is currently yelling at him.

(Just _slightly_ separate, he swears.)

“Are you even listening to me?!”

He blinks. She is just out of his reach, gesturing wildly towards the window of their office, and her eyes are huge like they get when she’s panicked but pretending she isn’t. He sees right through all of this, of course. Abby’s not half as subtle as she thinks she is, and he’s had years of practice working with and around her, and-

“It’s snowing,” he repeats, still trying to process that detail.  “And you’re freaking out because…”

“Because this week is already a calamity without half our people getting the fucking flu or something,” she sighs. “And because you’re _not_.”

Truth be told, the only reason Marcus qualifies as calm right now is because he’s already had that mental freakout. Goddamn right it’s snowing, and that’s a whole host of trouble he doesn’t need either but maybe it won’t be that bad or…

Hell with this, he thinks, crossing the tiny distance and taking the hand he suspects is more likely to accidentally hit him. Why that seems like the most natural thing in the world is beyond him, but it feels right to thread his fingers around hers and take a deep breath and-

Shit. She’s giving him the _look_.

Again, years of practice. Again, the fact that as far as he can remember, he’s never gotten the _look_  while sober before. But first time for everything (they’re fortysomething not _dead_ ) and good grief, Abby’s I-love-you-but-please-stop-being-such-an-idiot eye contact probably should not make the wings of his heart flutter so much and-

“How exactly did we end up in charge of this madness,” he breathes, not a question, lacing their fingers just a little tighter for strength. “How did everyone more competent end up dead.”

Gently, as only she could, she takes his other hand in hers. (Like a wedding ceremony except somehow _worse_ , he can’t help thinking.) “It’s been over a week since any of our people got bit by a squirrel,” she shrugs. “You’re doing _something_  right.”

No, Marcus wants to counter, no he is not. He is too old for most of this bullshit, his lust for power bled out the day the rest of him should have, and-

“What I did right was ask you to help me,” he breathes.

Vulnerable. He doesn’t _do_  vulnerable, hides his emotions like some of the stranger marks on his skin, and yet… no, not vulnerable, at least not in the scary way. Because this is _her_ , and she’s the safest thing he knows, and-

“Asking is a strong word for it,” Abby mutters. “More like you tried to get yourself killed and screwed _that_  up too.”

She’s not wrong, but he knows better than to add that to the pile of things he’s revealed today. “I could’ve chosen someone else.”

She laughs, shakes her head, tension gone. “You think anyone else left would put up with you like this?”

“You know me better than anyone, Abby. You were not a choice.”

(In that moment, he realizes he is going to spend the entire rest of his life wrapped around this woman in whatever way she allows.)

“We’ll be fine,” she breathes after a long silence, rather unconvincing but still full of hope and light. “Snow isn’t going anywhere, and weren’t you saying you weren’t sure how to test some of the-”

“We’ll be fine,” he repeats. “Insulation that survived space should be able to survive the other elements.”

“It should,” she shrugs. “And if anything else happens… Marcus… I can be strong for both of us too. You’re not alone.”

Better than he knows himself, he can’t help thinking as they reluctantly break apart and resume their separate projects on opposite sides of the office, and brighter than the sun. How the hell did he get so lucky.


End file.
